


These Days of Dust

by bbcsherlockian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:06:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcsherlockian/pseuds/bbcsherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John writes a blog entry describing how uncannily alike Sherlock is to a cat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Days of Dust

Sometimes Sherlock brings me things and I am vaguely reminded of a cat I once had. Every day she would happily deposit limp sparrows and mice on our doormat, never once realising that her gifts might have been slightly more underappreciated than she’d imagined.

Often, I will find myself relishing in an unusual quiet spot with a newspaper - or even a blog post - and he’ll come pouncing up behind me, breaking the stillness with a loud proclamation about toenail clippings or a proposal relating to the experimental science of soil analysis in southwestern Nigeria. His desperation to ruthlessly drag me away from such _boring_ occupations of my time is rarely concealed, but I’ve found that over the years I don’t particularly mind all that much. Because, more often than not, if such a brilliantly inventive man is willing to do everything in his power to distract me, he can usually do a pretty damn good job of it. Even now, after so much time spent in my company, he doesn’t seem to ever get bored with my attention. I value that more than I can ever convey.

But there are other times in which I find myself occupied in something a little less mundane than a crossword and he still insists in coming to me with a new serial killer to chase, a new lead to follow. And invariably, no matter how involved in the paperwork I’m completing or the shopping I’m being forced to undertake, I will drop everything - sometimes literally - to be held close to his side again, epinephrine racing through our veins. And he knows it. The hold he has over me is sometimes terrifying, I’ll admit that.

These ‘gifts’ have been known to, on occasion, err slightly further on the subtle side - but only slightly. The other morning I came downstairs to find a completely dried and salted heart sitting rather forlornly on the kitchen table; I think it was Sherlock’s idea of a romantic gesture, and despite all of my complaints, I was oddly touched. We did have a talk about hygiene after, however. Sometimes he takes my half finished coffee cup in a gloved hand and dusts it for fingerprints before placing it back at my elbow and walking silently away. Sometimes he breathes on the windows in the living room and writes the chemical formula for oxytocin onto the glass while I watch. Sometimes he’ll hide the fingers from a pair of hands around the flat in obscure places, and then follow me round while I search for each digit’s partner in some twisted version of an easter egg hunt, giggling like a child (Yes, Sherlock does giggle, no matter what he contravenes). All his life, people have been telling him he’s cold, distant and completely apathetic, to such an enormous extent that he’s convinced himself he is actually unlovable. I’m doing everything in my power to make him realise how very wrong he is.

There are times, I’ll admit, where these peculiar displays of sudden affection are provided at completely, preposterously inopportune moments. Take, for example, the other evening in which his head was in my lap while I was watching some tv program about redecorating; I was running my fingers through his hair, scraping gently over his scalp (he has some odd buttons, but once you press them appropriately you can have the great and mighty Sherlock Holmes melting placidly against you in a state of semi-consciousness in a matter of seconds). I have no idea what caused this particular spark in his mind, but one minute he was completely relaxed on my thighs and the next he was rearing up so fast he knocked my chin with his forehead and made my teeth snap together, before announcing that he absolutely must collect some samples of geese feces to show me, _at once_ , and all but sprinted out of the flat in nothing but a dressing gown. Senseless, yes, but more brilliant and alive than anyone I have ever met before.

Domesticated cats kill small, garden dwelling creatures not out of necessity but out of instinct and boredom. Some cats then deliver their trophies to our back doors not out of pride, but out of trust and love. While, to many of us, their presents are mangled and contaminated corpses, to them it is a gesture of solidarity. I know that Sherlock has always been as willing to please and impress as he is now, but everyone else has always pushed him away, frightened and disgusted, and left him confused and alone outside in the cold.

And I can tell you that as long as I’m still breathing, he won’t ever be shut out again.


End file.
